Saint Grace
by calliecolors
Summary: A young Irish girl is rescued and adopted by the Saints. Eight years later, the Saints must return to Boston to clear their good names. Grace O'Shea is ready to become a Saint. The question is, does she posses the constitution? The debt of faith...to go as far as is needed? And will she fall in love in the process? AU Murphy/OC ship. Explicit Smut, language & violence.
1. Chapter 1 Uisce Beatha

**Disclaimer:** This is a work of fan fiction. The story I tell about Connor & Murphy MacManus is my own invention, and it is not purported, or believed, to be part of the _Boondock Saints_ story canon. It is for entertainment only and is not part of the official story line.

**A/N:** This is a Boondock Saints AU, Murphy/OC romance fan-fiction. A word of caution: At some point during the progression of this story **there will be** explicit smut, so if that kind of thing bothers you, _Saint Grace_ may not be for you.

….

_May the road rise up to meet you.  
>May the wind always be at your back.<br>May the sun shine warm upon your face,  
>and rains fall soft upon your fields.<br>And until we meet again,  
>May God hold you in the palm of His hand.<em>

_An old Irish Blessing. _

Chapter One:

She was only ten years old when they came and forced her into her own Da's casket, burying her alive. It was a reminder to the O'Shea family never to cross the Ivanov family again. Poor Da' had refused to sell his pub to the Ivanov's, and the Russians had killed him for it.

Grace knew she would have suffered the same fate, if Murphy & Connor MacManus hadn't heard about what the Ivanov's had done to her. They came to Mount Hope Cemetery, and dug her out, barely alive. Connor carried her in his arms all the way to the Irish health clinic. They left her in the care of the nurses, and when they returned, hours later, they were covered in blood, and both wounded.

Grace still had nightmares, almost every night, about waking up smashed between the cold, stinking corpse of her Da, and the lid of his casket, buried six feet under the ground. Grace had tried, unsuccessfully, to claw herself out of the wooden box.

"When they heal, we'll take you somewhere, have them painted pink." Connor had promised her, as the doctor had bandaged her torn, bloody fingertips.

The twins inquired at the apartment building Grace was living in when her father died. They learned that Grace's Ma' died when Grace was three. With her Da' gone, the only blood relative Grace had left was an aunt with too many mouths to feed already. The twins couldn't bring themselves to leave Grace at a Boston orphanage, so they spirited her away with them, to a little white cottage, and a sheep farm, in Ireland. And to the sweet old man with the beard who smelled like wood smoke, and made beautiful furniture, and told her Irish bed-time stories by candlelight on stormy nights.

It was Noah who eventually got Grace talking again, and though she still didn't have much to say after two years of silence, she could speak when she wanted to.

The four broken people became a family, and as Grace grew the twins, and their da, imparted their knowledge and abilities to her. She was proficient in five languages; Gaelic, Russian, Spanish, French, German, and Italian. She could disassemble and reassemble a Beretta quicker than Connor, she could defend herself in a proper fight, and she was raised catholic.

During their first seven years in Ireland, the twin's were at peace living a simple life, but as the eighth year went by they started showing signs of restless, and for reasons Grace didn't understand, the peaceful life they'd had for so many years, didn't seem as permanent anymore.

Then came the day Father O'Carrigan came to tell them about the murder of a priest in Boston. Grace had excused herself after supper – she had a hard time being around people other than the twins and Noah – preferring machines to human beings. She was in the barn adding the newest part they'd received to the Uisce Beatha still they were building. Uisce Beatha was the Gaelic term for whiskey, and meant "water of life." It was mostly Grace's project. She was more mechanically inclined than the others – due to all the mechanics books she read constantly – and she always liked having a project to tinker with. It kept her mind off of her recent feelings for one of the twins – feelings she didn't understand.

Grace was sitting on her stool in front of the still, covered in grease, a wrench gripped in her right hand, her untamed red curls tied back, a couple frustrating locks falling in her face, when the barn doors burst open, revealing the stormy night outside. Connor and Murphy, the sweater's Grace had knitted them for winter drenched, ambled purposefully into the barn. "There she is, shoulda known we'd find her 'ere," Connor said, "how long you been at it this time, young one?"

"Long enough," Murphy said, answering his brother's question for her before she could.

She blinked, glancing down at her watch and felt a little ashamed. She _was_ neglecting her chores, and tending to her part of Noah's upholstery work. Grace stood up, feeling her muscles protest the movement after so many hours of sitting. "The good Father brought that new part from town." She mopped the sweat off her brow with her sleeve. "And I've been obsessing a little."

Connor veered off toward the wall with all the tools hanging on it, and Murphy joined Grace. He knelt down, looking into the mess of copper piping. She saw his eyes light on the part she was trying to fit on. He reached toward the wrench, their eyes met for a brief moment, and she handed over the tool, looking away, feeling her face heat up.

Murphy stole her stool, and leaned in to the space she'd been working in, wrench in hand.

She glanced up at Connor. He had two large shovels, one in each hand and was turning toward them. "What'll you be wanting those for?" She asked, nodding at the shovels. It was too late in the season for any garden work.

Connor glanced at her, then at Murphy, rolling his eyes. "Great. Now ya got that arse 'obsessin''' too."

"Who ya callin' an arse, ya fucker?"

Grace rolled her eyes. _And it begins_, she thought.

Then she heard a sound that was music to her ears. The bolt that had been troubling her clinked into place, and Murphy leaned back, smiling, the expression pulling on his long beard. "Why don' ya give 'er a whirl, Gracey?" he said, gesturing up at the big copper machine.

Grace tucked back a flaming red tendril of hair, wiped her greasy hands on her work apron, and went over to the power switch. She looked at Murphy, he gave her an encouraging nod, and she pushed the switch to the 'ON' position. She beamed in delight when the still hummed to life, and a cloud of steam rose from the machine. She quickly turned it off again. She wasn't quite ready to start brewing yet. "Murph gets the first pint tonight." She announced, pointing proudly at Murphy.

She expected arguing from Connor and gloating from Murphy, but instead all she got was dead silence, and grim looks from both the boys. Murphy's eyes darted over her shoulder at his brother, and he started chewing on his bottom lip.

"What? Am I missing something?" She asked, looking to Connor for an explanation.

"'M afraid we leave tonight, _A stór_." He sounded sad, as he invoked the old term of endearment from her girlhood. _A stór._ My treasure.

Another trip out to check on the sheep she guessed. The twins were in the habit of leaving for days at a time, herding, and camping out the woods, needing their space from the monotony of Noah's life, and her life now too. "I see," she said, wiping more grease off her hands with her apron.

"Not sure you do, Gracey, but ya will." Murphy said, standing up and taking one of the shovels from Connor. "Three shovels are better than two, I always say. Why don't ya grab one for Grace?"

Connor frowned, seemed to consider his twin's proposition for a moment, and then gave a quick nod. "She turned of age last year. S'pose that means she's ready." He went over to the wall and grabbed a third shovel, tossing it to her. She frowned down at the shovel. Setting it aside, she took her apron off, aware of them watching her. She picked up the shovel again, gripping it with both hands.

"All right," she said, nodding at them. "I'm ready." Though she wasn't entirely sure what exactly she was ready for, she wasn't one to back down to a challenge.

"Da won't like this," Connor told his brother, as they shut the barn doors.

"He won't like it, but he'll understand. Grace's family, she's fuckin' one of us, Connor. She has the prayers," he pointed to his head. "She can shoot, she's fast as fuckin' lightnin', and she can speak all the languages. She's ready, and we're not the young lads we used to be. It's fuckin' now or never."

"Aye, but she hasn't been Called, Murph."

"She will be." Murphy replied, his tone full of conviction. "So what do you think?"

"I'm strangely comfortable with it." Connor answered, rubbing his bearded chin.

Connor and Murphy stopped on the back side of the barn. Simultaneously both brothers dropped their shovel blades into a particular spot of earth. There was a bright flash of lightning and she saw their hand tattoo's illuminated in the light. _Veritas_ and _Aequitas_. Truth and Justice. A chill ran up Grace's spine. She gazed down at the spot they had chosen, puzzling over what could possibly need digging up.

….

A/N: I hope you enjoyed the first chapter of Saint Grace. I plan to post the next chapter a week from today – which will be longer and have a little more romance.

If you have time to review, I'd love to hear what you think about my version so far.


	2. Chapter 2 Back to Babylon

**Disclaimer:** This is a work of fan fiction. The story I tell about Connor & Murphy MacManus is my own invention, and it is not purported, or believed, to be part of the _Boondock Saints_ story canon. It is for entertainment only and is not part of the official story line.

**A/N:** This is a Boondock Saints AU, Murphy/OC romance fan-fiction. A word of caution: At some point during the progression of this story **there will be** explicit smut, so if that kind of thing bothers you, _Saint Grace_ may not be for you.

**Major appreciation** to kelseyBl for beta reading chapter two for me!

….

"_May you have the hindsight to know where you've been, the foresight to know where you are going, and the insight to know when you have gone too far."_

~ Irish Blessing

….

Chapter 2

It wasn't anything new for the girl to see them with their shirts off. How else would she have tattooed them?

They'd discovered when she was little that she had a flare for the artistic. One day Murphy brought home a tattoo gun he'd won in a bet, and gave it to Grace, telling her she better learn to use it because he had plans for her artistic hands. Christ's chest on the cross on Connor's back, and Christ's feet on the cross on Murphy's back.

"Give me that," she said, taking the knife out of Connor's hand and forcing him to sit down. She climbed up behind him and went to work on his hair, trying to remember what the boys looked like with short hair and without their beards.

Cutting Connor's hair felt like a sisterly thing to do, and when she was done she slapped him on the shoulder and gestured for Murphy to take his place. As soon as those broad bare shoulders were between her spread thighs, the heat of his skin making full contact with the bare skin on her inner thigh, Grace realized cutting Murphy's hair did not feel sisterly at all. She nicked him more than once out of pure nervousness, but he didn't seem to notice.

She tinkered with the still while they rinsed the loose hair off. They expected her not to peek as they stripped, but Grace was as curious as a cat. She glanced occasionally over, catching bits and pieces of their bodies, all hard muscles and tattoos. She had to look away when she caught a glimpse of Murphy's ass, and those sexy, perfect buns. When she wasn't sneaking peeks at Murphy, her eyes kept cutting over to the big wooden crate they'd pulled out of the ground behind the farm.

Grace sensed that this wasn't simply them going off on another sheep run. This was a departure of a whole different sort, and a ball of anxiety settled in her belly.

She felt Murphy's eyes on her as he stepped out of the water, wrapping a towel around his waist. She knew that look – especially now that the shroud of facial hair was gone. Murphy was thinking hard on something, and whatever it was – for some odd reason she felt confident it involved her.

"Connor, what's in the crate?" Grace finally asked, her eyes still locked on Murphy – feeling a blush creep up her cheeks under the scrutiny of his silent gaze.

Connor looked up from the hair he was sweeping up. "Got a job, Gracey."

"A job?" She frowned, finally breaking eye contact with Murphy to turn and look at his twin. "What kind of job?"

"Didn't ya ever wonder what happened that day we took you ta tha' hospital in Boston, Gracey?"

Grace's frown deepened. She had wondered for a long time why the brother's had returned later that night covered in blood, Murphy with a four inch laceration on his right arm – she glanced up at him again and saw the scar from that night – and Connor with a bullet lodged in his calf. But she'd stopped caring long ago – when the peaceful rhythm of their lives in Ireland cast a blessed fogginess over the past. "Not really." She answered, "Why?"

Conner looked at his brother over her shoulder. He nodded once and stalked over to the crate. "Once upon a time, two brothers were Called by God to deliver evil men ta their maker to be judged an' condemned for their sins." Connor said.

"Evil men like the ones that killed your da, and buried a little girl alive in fuckin' casket, just to send a fuckin' message_," _Murphy said, "I know ya remember _that_, Grace."

She watched them closely. They looked ten years younger without the hair and beard, and she found herself fascinated by the transformation.

She couldn't deny what Murphy was saying even if she wanted to. Of course she remembered. Both brothers, and Noah, had heard her thrashing, moaning, and sometimes screaming in her sleep. At first it was a nightly routine. The cabin was small, and one of them would wake up, hear her and come to comfort her. Lately, it had been only Connor and Noah to wake her from the dreams and stay with her until she fell back asleep. Murphy hadn't woken her from a nightmare in months. He must have been sleeping heavy lately.

"Go on," she told Connor.

He nodded. "So the two brothers' became shepherds and dealt out swift deaths to at least thirty evil men – including the ones that killed your da and tried to kill you."

"You…you murdered people?"

"Only bad people, and never women or children. Only those who failed to live by a certain code of principles." Connor stated, pulling a key out of his jeans pocket and bending to unlock the padlock on the crate.

"What principles?" Grace asked, her heart racing. She couldn't believe what she was hearing.

"Do not kill, do not rape, do not steal. Principles which every man of every faith can embrace." Murphy said and she jumped, surprised he was standing so close to her.

At that the crate gave a lurch as Connor opened it. Grace's eyes fell on the box's contents; guns, knives, jewelry, clothing and stacks of American money. "What in God's name," she breathed, taking a few steps forward and peering at the contents. Then it clicked. Father O'Carrigan's news about the dead priest, the stacks of newspapers she'd found when she was snooping in Connor's closet once about a pair of vigilante killers called "The Saints" taking out a bunch of mafia in Boston, the condition they were in the night they returned to the hospital to collect her so many years ago.

It clicked, and Grace knew they were leaving her. Not for a short camping trip, but for a much longer time, and they were going much further away. They were going back to Boston – back to Babylon – and they might not come back. "I'm coming with you." Grace said, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at the both of them.

"Out of the fuckin' question." Murphy said, "Not this time."

"Don't you tell me 'no' Murphy MacManus, you aint my da." She glared at him. She didn't care if the twins were killers – she loved them unconditionally – and she would not be left behind while they went so far away.

Murphy looked down at the ground and shook his head. Connor sighed, "Come on Murph, help me get this stuff on the table. Inventory time."

Grace helped them take apart, clean, and reassemble the guns. This action was nothing new for the boys, but the weapons were new. Usually they were cleaning hunting guns, rifles, and occasionally Noah's old gun collections but never guns like these – with silencers. Grace knew the gun's were meant to serve one sole purpose - killing people.

"You yerself said she was old enough to know," Connor said, breaking the silence that had set in around them as they meticulously cleaned their weapons.

"What's yer point?" Murphy asked, setting a stack of clips on the table.

Grace looked up from the silencer she was cleaning.

When Connor replied to his twin his voice held a mocking tone. "'Grace's family, she's fuckin' one of us, Connor. She has the prayers.'" He pointed to his head "Remember sayin' that yerself not more'n an hour ago?"

"Ahh, fuck you," Murphy said, "You know what I fuckin' meant. She should _know_ about us, about what she _could_ be one day, not fuckin' come along ta Boston– she's not even fuckin' trained."

"Neither was Rocco."

Murph dropped a gun on the table. "And where the fuck is Rocco now? God bless his fuckin' soul."

Rocco? Grace has never heard the name before. It certainly wasn't an Irish name. Who were they talking about? She sat back on the stool and watched them intently. Occasionally Murphy would glance her way, biting his bottom lip, his jaw clenching in his cheek. "Ya got a point there, dear brother," Connor admitted, "Could use the back-up though, and this time should be quick an' clean, in an' out."

"Aye, because it's always that fuckin' easy, isn't it?" Murphy spit out.

"Why're you bein' such a fuckin' pansy about this?" Connor argued, "You were the one that was all 'she can shoot, she's fast as fuckin' lightnin'…..she's ready, and we're not the young lads we used to be. It's fuckin' now or never.' What happened to all that?"

Murphy leaned over the table. "I was talkin' about startin' to fuckin' train her you dipshit."

"Exactly. What better chance ta train her, Murph, then takin' her to Boston with us?"

Murphy shook his head. He dug in his jeans pockets and pulled out a bent up rolled cigarette. Using his gold zippo, he lit it, and inhaled deeply blowing smoke out through his nose. He put both palms on the table – the corded muscles in his forearms rippling – and leaned in close whispering something to Conner that Grace couldn't hear. She sat forward, straining to listen.

Connor nodded, and the twins fell silent. Grace caught Murphy's pool water blue eyes. He shook his head and looked away. She could tell he was livid, but she thought maybe they were going to let her go. "So?" She said, tapping her nails on the table. "Can I go?"

They both looked up at her at the same time. Lightning cracked making it look like daytime outside for a fraction of a second. Thunder rolled, vibrating the ground around them. "Not until ye've been called." Connor answered, slamming a clip into his gun. "Sorry, young one, maybe next time."

She narrowed her eyes and a wave of fury washed over her. She stood, rigid, and marched out of the barn, hearing their silence behind her.

….

Grace fell on her bed and sobbed into the pillow. After a few minutes there was a light knock at the door. She knew, without looking, that it was Noah. The twin's didn't knock. "Come in," she said, sitting up and wiping her eyes on her sleeve.

The grey haired old man opened her door and leaned in the doorway. "Heard ya crying, love, want ta talk about it?"

She sniffled, and swallowed hard. "They're leaving."

"I know."

"Why? Why do they have to go do this?"

Noah came to her, and wrapped his arms around her, his wool sweater scratching her face. "Peace, they say, is the enemy of memory. So it had been for my boys. For some time now, their past had felt like a dream. Then, suddenly, it was back. You've seen them. In your heart of hearts, you know what they are, and why they have to leave, lass."

"But I want them to take me with them." She felt deep down that if she let them go, she'd never see either of them again. A panic welled up inside her.

She felt Noah nod in understanding. He released her from his comforting embrace and sat on the bed in front of her. "Does God ever speak ta ya, Gracey?"

She bit her lip. "No," she said, frowning and pulling her legs up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them.

"And he won't." Noah said, softly, his eyes twinkling with amusement as she her head shot up to look at him. "Not like he does to them."

"Why?"

"Because you are not a MacManus, love."

"But you gave me the prayers, Noah…I…I thought…"

"The boys don't even understand it, Gracey. Having the prayers won't make you like us, love, because you don't share our blood."

"It's in the blood?" She asked, knowing they were talking about the Calling. "But you aren't a killer Noah."

He gave her a mysterious smile, "There you are wrong, little dove. With these hands," he looked down at this palms, "I have killed evil men in the name of God and vengeance, just as my father before him, and his before that."

Her eyes widened, and then she realized what he was saying. "So…so…I'll never get to go with them. I'll never be Called. And they don't know that?"

Noah shook his head. "No child. But the Lord does have a purpose for you."

"He does?"

Noah nodded. He patted her hand. "He sent us an angel named Grace, so that she might shield the shepherds while they perform their holy task."

"Shield them?"

"I have something for you. Come here." Noah led her from the candlelit room. She saw the barn lights were still on, meaning the twins hadn't departed yet. Surely they wouldn't leave without saying goodbye, even if they knew she was furious with them.

Noah took her to his work-shed at the back of the cottage. Using a key he had tied on a leather string around his neck, he opened a drawer that she thought was permanently locked. He pulled out the drawer. There was a leather vest customized with six holsters. Noah removed the vest from the drawer with care, and handed it to her. "And these" he said, opening the glass display case where he kept his guns. "Ya can trade these for what ya need."

She shook her head, running her hand over the smooth leather of the vest. She was twitching to try it on. "They said I can't go."

Noah smiled at her. "My boys have the best intentions. You though, Grace, you possess certain gifts my boys do not."

She frowned, "I do?"

"Yes. See Connor and Murphy live by a strict code set forth by a power greater than you could ever imagine. The same rules that restrict them have no effect on you. You aren't bound by their code."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that you can keep them safe, no matter what the cost."

"You mean…like… killing someone innocent if it would save their lives."

"P'raps, p'raps not. But you _would _do whatever it took to save them, wouldn't you?"

She nodded slowly up and down. Maybe it wasn't right, maybe it made her evil, but she would do just about anything to keep her guardian angels out of danger, even if it meant becoming the very thing they were put on the planet to destroy. A warm feeling of calm settled in on her when she realized Noah was right. "Absolutely." She said, without giving it a second thought.

"And therein lays your gift, sweet child, the gift given to you – by God – to protect his agents as they do his work."

"So I'm going?" A jolt of excitement went through her.

He nodded. "I'll get you get passage on the ship. You'll speak ta no one. Wear a hood, ta disguise your gender, and all that red hair. Your advantage is that the boys are largely unobservant when their drinkin' – and I assure you they will be tonight – but you must not let them see you until you reach American soil. I'll give you an address for an underground arms dealer you will go to see when you get ta Boston, and then you'll go to find the twins who will be laying low at a certain pub I know about. I'll give you that address as well."

Her heart was pumping in her chest. "I don't like deceiving them, Noah, even if it's for their own good."

"They want ta protect you, little lass, it's only natural."

"But I'm stronger than they think I am." She took Noah's hand, "Why are you doing this for me?"

His eyes twinkled as he pushed a hair out of her face with his free hand, "I'm doing it for my boys as well, lass, don't mistake tha' part of my motivation. And because it is not your destiny to spend all your days with a lonely old man, making furniture and tinkering with machines. You have a calling, dear, just not the same as ours, yours is more subtle. The Lord works in mysterious ways, Grace. Now go, get your bags packed, ship leaves at midnight."

…. 


	3. Chapter 3 Absolution

**Disclaimer:** This is a work of fan fiction. The story I tell about Connor & Murphy MacManus is my own invention, and it is not purported, or believed, to be part of the _Boondock Saints_ story canon. It is for entertainment only and is not part of the official story line.

**A/N:** This chapter was inspired by the song _Sing for Absolution_ by Muse. "_Sing for absolution. I will be singing, and falling from your grace."_

**Special thanks** to kelseyBl for beta reading this chapter for me!

….

_These things, I warmly wish for you-  
>Someone to love, some work to do,<br>A bit of o' sun, a bit o' cheer.  
>And a guardian angel always near.<em>

…_._

Chapter 3

The motion of the boat was soothing to Grace as she lay on the small cot in the stuffy little boat cabin. She kept hearing yells, and laughter coming from somewhere on deck.

She tossed and turned for another five minutes before throwing her blanket off and climbing out of bed still fully clothed. She pulled the metal string hanging down from the ceiling and the light blinked on revealing the interior of the small storage room she was given – by a crew member Noah knew - to sleep in. Grace retrieved her hoodie and slid it on, putting the hood up, ensuring in the small grubby mirror, that her red curls were adequately tucked away under its edges.

She snuck quietly through the door of her cabin, and turned left, climbing a flight of stairs to the upper deck, following the lights and sounds of men carrying on.

Grace came upon a ring of shouting, cheering men surrounded by canary yellow farm equipment, giant looming tractors and dump trucks. She wedged her way between the men until she had a decent view of the activities going on inside the ring.

A young, muscular, tan looking fellow with his shirt off, and covered in tattoos, sporting a mullet of sorts, was bouncing around the center of the ring of spectators, his hands were cuffed and a much larger, more formidable appearing guy was throwing wild punches trying to hit the smaller man.

Grace searched the crowd until her eyes came to rest on the twins, wearing grubby white tank-tops, smiling and laughing at the spectacle in front of them. She tucked herself across the way from them, in between two large blokes, so that she had a good view.

Grace felt the testosterone heighten when the hand-cuffed fighter got the larger man on the ground and, using what looked like a wrestling move of some sort, pinned the guy's arm above his head. The big guy passed out, and a roar went up from the crowd.

She weaved through the crowd, following the brother's, when the fights were over. They were holing up in a private area of the deck. There were plenty of places for Grace to hide. She slipped in while they were drinking, and got behind a large shipping crate, where she would have a good view of them.

The twins rarely drank at home. She knew they drank when they were out checking on the sheep, or at the local pubs, and she'd always wished that one day they might take her with them, but they never had. They only drank at home with her, in the privacy of the barn, and then they would never let her have more than one or two drinks.

They were joking with each other about something. Murphy said something about coloring his hair. Connor made a joke, and Murphy stabbed him in the shoulder with the tattoo pen he was using to touch up his brother's back.

Then there was another commotion, and Grace sat rigid when she saw the fighter from earlier – the one with the spiky mullet, approach the wrestling twins with a bottle of something. They proceeded to trick the poor bastard into believing they were going to kill him. She rolled her eyes and resisted the urge to fall asleep. She hadn't slept in over twenty four hours. Neither had the twins, but they didn't seem bothered by it like she was.

Hours later she woke in darkness. The boys were passed out, Murphy on the table and Connor on the floor underneath the table. Their friend, who she'd overheard was called Romeo, was in a chair, his chin tucked down to his chest, snoring. Grace tiptoed past the sleeping men, and with her stomach rolling from the movement of the sea, she held onto the railing all the way back to her little cabin where she passed out again.

When she woke she expected it to be morning. Something had jarred her from sleep. A sound. Then a rough hand cupped her mouth and she saw a shadowy figure looming over her.

Grace kicked and screamed, scratching at the hand that covered her face. "Quit yer thrashin.' It's me ye ninny." A distinctly male, Irish voice said.

As soon as she stopped fighting he moved his hand away from her face, and took a step backward, crossing his arms over his chest. "Just what the fuck da ye think yer doin,' Gracey."

How had Murphy caught her? Noah would be disappointed. She inhaled deeply, and pushed up to a sitting position. "I wanted to come with ye."

"I see that. But the answer was 'no' girl."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Like I said yesterday, ye aint my da."

He was seething now, and she could almost feel the heat rolling off of him. It was too dark to see his features, he was still just a shadowy outline, but she guessed it was rigid with fury. He took a step forward and she flinched, actually worried he might slap her. Instead, he pulled her up by the collar of her hoodie, and ripped her zipper open, then stood back. He saw the vest she was wearing and let out a long whistle of air. "Fuckin' da," he commented, as if he was telling her something she didn't already know.

She huffed and pulled the hoodie back together, glaring at him. "He's the only one who has any faith in me."

Grace's eyes were starting to adjust to the darkness, and she could see Murph's face now, could see the restrained rage, and the hurt that crossed his expression at her words. "That's not true."

"Whatever, Murph. Connor was going ta let me come with you. It was you, you stopped him, an' ye made the decision ta leave me behind. Probably thought I'd just get in the way o' your partying an' sex, an' whatever other trouble it is the two of ye get up ta in Boston."

His eyes widened, and then he was doubling over as if he was in pain. She moved to go to him but then he let out a peel of laughter, and her body went rigid. She jumped off the make-shift bed, and went to slap him in the face but he grabbed her wrist, stopping her. His voice was a low growl when he spoke. "Ye sound a little jealous, lass." He pulled her roughly against his chest, his fingers clamping down on the fleshy part of her upper arms.

She struggled to free herself from him but he just clamped his hands down harder, and she was sure she'd have bruises. "Let me go, Murph, you're hurting me."

"This is what ye want, right, lass? A little bit o' danger, someone to show you some fuckin' attention." He pulled her back a little, shaking her so that her head fell back and she was staring up at him.

"No." She shouted, and tears were coming to her eyes.

Murphy's eyes blazed down at her, and she felt a tremor go through him as he held her in place, forcing her to look back at him. The gaze lingered far longer than it should have, and then he was letting her go, giving her a little shove so that her rump hit the make-shift bed behind her. Grace wiped her face on the sleeve of her sweat-shirt, and crossed her arms over her chest. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

He inhaled deeply, and took a step toward her, reaching out his hand. He swept several stubborn curls out of her face, and his eyes met hers only this time the anger was less, and there was a small amount of curiosity, as if he was studying her like a lab rat. "Yer here now. No sense in fightin' about it." He dropped her hair, and turned walking over to the shelf of cooking supplies. He seemed preoccupied with the shelf for a minute, and then he reached up and grabbed a bottle of something. He scooped two small clear glasses off another shelf and came back over to her.

"What's that for?" She asked, nodding at the bottle.

He shrugged. "For fun."

"We're drinking?"

He nodded, and removed the lid from the dusty bottle. He handed her a glass and poured the amber liquid into it, then topped himself off as well. "What should we drink to?" He asked.

She shrugged feeling suddenly sheepish. She sniffed the liquid. It smelled like whiskey but sweeter. Then she had a thought. "To Ireland" she said, holding up the glass.

Murphy laughed. "_le mo banphrionsa_, to my little Irish princess."

The drink was harsh going down, not like the whiskey from home. "Murph?" She asked, as he was filling her glass again.

"Yeah?"

"Why didn't ye want me ta come?"

His eyes flicked up to hers, and then back down to what he was doing. When both their glasses were full he gave a little shrug. "Ta keep ye safe. Boston's going ta be a fuckin' war zone when we're done wit it."

She drank her whiskey, feeling the warmth travel down her body, and wiped her mouth with her sleeve. "Okay, now what's the real reason?"

She felt him tense beside her. "What the fuck are ye getting at, Grace?"

She shrugged, holding out her glass for a refill. He acquiesced, and filled his own glass again too. Grace was starting to feel like her whole body was humming. Her face was going numb a little. "Christ. Dunno…just seemed like it was something else." The right words were caught in her throat. They genuflected by crossing themselves.

"Yer lookin' for shit where der is nuttin.'"

She glanced over at him. He looked back, and she could see the lie in his eyes. Her face blazed with heat. If he was lying, then there really was something else, and the lie in his eyes provided Grace with a certain confirmation she'd never had before. She'd loved Murphy, wanted him, for months now, maybe even a year. She didn't understand the feelings, and she'd done her best to exorcise them from her mind. She'd never even bothered to hope that he reciprocated her feelings because he'd never given so much as a clue that he was capable of seeing her as more than a little sister, a child. But now Grace felt a surge of adrenaline at the possibilities his lie opened up.

They fell into silence, sharing a couple more drinks. "Bed time," he said, finally, taking her cup from her.

"But I'm not tired."

He laughed. "Bullshit." He put the half empty bottle back on the supply shelf, and tossed their glasses in the dirty sink.

He moved toward the door. "Where are ye goin?'" she asked in an offended tone.

Murphy's hand was on the knob of the door. "Back ta bed."

She frowned. "Stay with me."

He shook his head. "_That_ is a very bad idea, _a stór_."

"It isn't," she whispered, feeling an ache deep down at his tender phrasing – my treasure.

She wasn't sure if he heard her, but he was hesitating at the door, his hand still on the knob. "What d'ye want from me Gracey."

"I think ye know, Murph."

He shook his head again, she could see his jaw clenching, and he drew in a deep, ragged breath. "You don't want that, not from me."

"From who then?" She said, surprised at the boldness in her voice. "From Connor? Or how about your new friend Romeo?"

She saw him clench his fist, and his features immediately animated with rage again. So _he_ could get jealous too. "Don't you fucking talk like that," he said, stabbing a finger at her.

"I'll talk however I fucking want, Murphy. And if _you_ don't want me, well I guess I'll just have to find someone else. Would a stranger be better than your brother?"

"Ye don't want him." Murphy said, and for the first time his voice took on a dangerously low quality that made her heart start racing at little.

She shook her head, looking down at her tiny hands. "It's always been you." She whispered, slightly afraid to look up at his dark, hungry gaze again.

She felt him move toward her. Suddenly he was kneeling down, his face was even with hers, and he was cupping her cheeks in his calloused hands. "D'ye have the fuckin' hots for Connor?" He asked.

"I just told ye…"

"Just answer the fuckin' question."

"No."

"Or anyone else?"

She shook her head, feeling his fingers press into the flesh of her cheeks, averting her eyes from his maniacal expression. "Say it, girl," he said, forcing her to look at him.

"No, Murphy. I don't want anyone else. I just want you. Okay?" A surge of defiance went through her, and she fixed her eyes on his this time, refusing to look away.

He released her and leaned back on his heels, dropping his hands in his lap. "Gracey, why d'ye think I don' come ta ye anymore when yer havin' the dreams?"

His voice was tender, defeated sounding almost. "Dunno," she said, wanting to slide down on the floor beside him, take his head against her breast, and stroke her fingers through his short, sweaty hair.

He looked up then, and his face was ashen, like he'd seen a ghost. "It's because I'm afraid somethin'll happen, afraid I'll fuck things up by touchin' ye or kissin' ye. Because since ye became a woman, I've not been able ta stop thinkin' of ye in sinful ways."

Her heart was pounding in her chest, and her palms grew sweaty at his unexpected confession. Grace felt drawn to him, like there was some invisible string connecting them, and it was tugging her his way. She slid off the bed and down onto the floor in front of him. "Ye could try kissin' me now, Murph." She murmured.

He stiffened at her proximity, and looked up, savage self-loathing eyes meeting hers. "Grace. Don't tempt me."

"Just one kiss."

"No, Gracey, 'cause it won't stop there."

"Good."

His head shot up, and he scooted backwards, putting distance between them. She moved like she was going to follow him, and he held up a hand. "Stay the fuck there." He told her. She froze. "I'll stay wit ye," he held up a finger, "but only if ye get your arse in bed where it's safe."

She climbed up on the bed, huffing in frustration. She cuddled under the blankets and stewed. "Murph?"

"What?"

"Do ye have someone…I…mean…do ye have a girl in Boston?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "No. We're celibate, ye silly little twit."

She gasped. "You mean, you've never?"

"Nooo…course I fuckin' have…"

"Well why den, Murphy?"

"It's part of our holy penance, denying ourselves the sins of the flesh."

She sat in silence with him for a moment before answering her next question, "But could ye, if ye wanted to?"

"Course I fuckin' could," she saw him fingering the beads of his rosary, "But den I'd need a priest for absolution."

_Plenty of priests in Boston_, thought Grace. "Well what if you were married den, would ye still need a priest, every time?"

He cocked his head, sliding the rosary beads back over his neck. "Why? Ye thinkin' of proposin' lass?"

She heard him chuckling softly, and her face filled with heat. She grabbed a cushion and launched it at his head. He caught it – excellent reflexes even drunk in the dark – and smiled, setting it behind his head, still chuckling. "Shut up, and go to sleep, ye arse." She told him.

She tucked her hands under her cheek, and closed her eyes, thinking about what it would be like to be in a new city – so far from home – alone with the twins. Would they finally accept her as one of them, and treat her like an adult? And would Murphy ever come around, or would she go to sleep feeling this frustrated every night?

He must have fallen asleep because she heard his breaths coming even. She missed that sound. She thought about his confession. He had wanted her almost as long as she'd wanted him. It was with womanhood that a certain awareness of Murphy came to her. As she matured, she recognized her heighten sense of arousal anytime he was around. It was about that same time that Murphy had started keeping his distance from her. He'd stopped rough housing, drinking games, tickle fights, and all other activities that involved laying hands on her. Tonight was the first time he'd touched her in months. She felt her face fill with heat as she began to comprehend the restraint he'd been putting himself under all this time.

Grace knew Murphy, and she understood his qualms, but she wasn't going to stop trying. There was no way she could dream of dismissing what she felt for him, especially now that she knew he returned at least some of those feelings.

She closed her eyes, replaying the night in her mind, and drifted off to sleep, lulled by Murphy's breathing, and the soft sway of the ship.

….

**A/N: **It was so effin fun writing this chapter. I love it when the characters words come out faster than I can type them. Hope you enjoyed. Would love to know what YOU think so please review


	4. Chapter 4 Bad Plans and Confessionals

**Disclaimer:** This is a work of fan fiction. The story I tell about Connor & Murphy MacManus is my own invention, and it is not purported, or believed, to be part of the _Boondock Saints_ story canon. It is for entertainment only and is not part of the official story line.

A/N: This chapter was inspired by **Liquid State** by Muse! youtube it while you read!

….

_Every tide has an ebb save the tide of graces._

~Irish proverb

Chapter Four

"Ya sneaky little Minx." Connor said, picking Grace up off her feet and twirling her around in the air. "How the fuck did ya manage that shit, girl?"

"Da helped her," Murphy grumbled, nodding his head in her general direction, which she took to mean he wanted her to reveal the garment she was wearing under her hoodie. Connor put Grace down and she unzipped her hoodie.

Connor's eyebrows rose upon seeing the leather vest, and he crossed his hand over his chest, and used a finger to stroke his chin. "Now why the fuck would da go and do a ting like that?"

She shrugged, and zipped her hoodie back up. She glanced up and saw Romeo staring at her. Grace didn't think it was a good time – considering present company - to tell the twins what Noah had confided in her.

"Stellen Sie sicher, dass sie tut nichts unüberlegtes" [to make sure you don't do anything stupid] she replied in German, "Können wir ihm trauen?" [Can we trust him?] She nodded her head toward Romeo.

The twins looked at Romeo. He frowned, and it seemed to dawn on him that they were talking about him. "Is someone going to tell me who the fuck this broad is?" Romeo asked, winking at Grace. "And what fuckin' language is she speaking?"

"Egli è innocente." [He's innocent enough] Connor shrugged, answering Grace's question in Italian.

Murphy stepped in front of Grace and Connor grabbed her and threw his arm over her shoulder, bending down to kiss her cheek. Murphy changed to Spanish. "Ella es nuestro primo, y ella no es para ser tocado o visto. Entender?" [She is our cousin, and she is not to be touched, or looked at, understand?"]

Romeo's eyes grew as large as saucers. "You speak Spanish. That is so fucking bad-ass. Your cousin?" Romeo stated, "She's beautiful. Hey, she doesn't look a thing like you two ugly motherfuckers." He gestured to them with his index finger. _Wrong thing to say_, Grace thought. She felt Connor's body go rigid, and his arm dropped off her shoulder.

Murphy's eyes narrowed. He and Connor shared a look, and then they were slamming Romeo up against the nearest wall. From their waist lines, they both drew their Berettas, and then they stuck the barrels to each of Romeo's cheeks. Connor held the terrified man in place and growled. "Gracia es intocable." [Grace is untouchable]

"Ella es nuestro" [She is ours] Murphy added, pressing the barrel of the gun harder against Romeo's cheek.

"¿Le impone las manos sobre la santa maría Magdalena" [Would you lay hands on the Saint Mary Magdalene?] Connor asked him, his face inches from Romeo's.

"Guys, guys, it's cool," Romeo said, "She's yours, untouchable. You're keeping it in the family. I get it."

They shoved him harder against the wall. "Would you two quit messing around?" Grace said, crossing her arms over her chest, and looking out to sea. Her eyes widened as she saw they were approaching land.

After another ten seconds of staring Romeo down the twins released him and he slid down the wall onto the ground, panting.

"Look," Grace said, pointing at what she assumed was Boston.

"We're almost there." Murphy said. "Time ta get packed up."

….

The colorful slug bug was a huge object of ridicule for the twins, who spent the entire first half of the drive razzing Romeo about the car. Grace sat in the backseat with Connor, watching the city of Boston pass by outside the window. She ignored the three of them, engrossed with people watching, and studying the architecture. Grace went to Dublin once with Noah, and after just a few short days she was so homesick for their little country cottage that Noah decided to end their trip early. "Ye are awfully quiet, lass." Connor nudged her shoulder, and took her hand in his.

"I'm not sure I like this plan."

Connor laughed. "Which part?"

"The lack of preparation, for one thing."

"And, let's have it, what else?"

"And trusting a stranger."

Murphy turned around in his seat. "The fuck are the two of ye going on about back der?"

"Gracey was just criticizing our plan."

"Fuck's sake, she's right. It is a fuckin' stupid plan."

Romeo shook his head. "It's been all over the papers the last two years. Yakavetta's in bed with the Chinese. Trust me man. Romeo's got an ace in the hole for you."

"Let's follow 'em down the fuckin' rabbit hole," Connor said with a shrug, and Grace rolled her eyes. She'd go along with it, for now, because she wasn't going to let them go alone, and they seemed determined to start their war immediately, but in the future she intended to have more of a say in how the kills went. She opened the pack at her feet, and searched through Noah's guns for her favorite of his revolvers. She checked the gun meticulously before loading it with bullets. Connor saw what she was doing and put a hand on hers, stopping her. "What?" She asked.

"You're staying in the car, love."

She gave him a shocked look. "What are you talking about?"

"Not this time, Gracey." Murph added over his shoulder, giving her that look that told her there was no point in arguing.

She put the gun back in the pack, crossed her arms, and glared at him. Grace wasn't about to let them go off and get themselves killed, after all that's why she'd come along in the first place. She also knew the best way to handle the situation was to let them think she was going to stay in the car.

….

The exterior of the dock was cast in shadows with the exception of the overhead lights, creating circles of light here and there on the pavement. Grace watched which way the three idiots had gone, and once they were out of sight, she extracted herself from the car, sliding the two guns she'd chosen into the middle holsters of her vest, and went the other way. She pulled a rubber band off her wrist, and holding it in her teeth momentarily she tied up her thick, curly red hair, and then secured it with the band. She'd heard the other three talking about a plan as they walked away from the car. It was Romeo's plan, and it was absolutely insane. She hoped the twins would have more sense than to listen to their new friend, but just in case they didn't, she would be there to ensure everything went well.

She stayed in the shadows, making her way past a couple of employees who looked relatively harmless, and into the dock warehouse. She stayed near the right wall, in the darkness, and crept deeper into the bowels of the building, seeing lights and hearing muffled conversation coming from a corridor ahead on the left. She found a stack of crates, and hid behind them, peering around the corner where she had a view of the people she was hearing. There was a raised platform at the end of a large room. The platform was well lit, and sitting on top of it was a long table, with at least four or five men wearing white masks over their mouths, and noses, working with something on the surface of the table. Behind the table were other men, in suits, and one woman.

They were clearly working with some kind of drugs. Probably heroine. They looked Chinese, but she couldn't be sure. The woman was certainly of Asian descent. She was probably no taller than Grace, with a petite frame, and wearing a pin-striped dress suit. Her hair was pulled back into an extreme ponytail, and she wore bright red lipstick. She paced back and forth behind the table, chattering loudly into a Bluetooth. Grace strained to hear. Chinese. The woman was definitely speaking Chinese. After several moments of close observation, Grace determined that – surprisingly - the female was in charge.

There was the sound of a vehicle approaching, and Grace turned to see a forklift heading her way carrying a large crate. The forklift was coming way to fast, and careening viciously to the left and right, as if the driver couldn't see where he was going. She heard a voice distinctly like Connor's scream "Left, go left."

Grace jumped out from behind the crates, and dashed into the room with the suits. She hid herself in the corner, and watched as the suits took in the sight of the forklift hurtling toward them. The woman reached into her jacket, and when she pulled her hands out they were clutching two gold-handled guns. "Fuck," Grace said, pushing off the wall and racing along – in the shroud of shadow – next to the out-of-control forklift. Suddenly the forklift stopped. There were shouts from the Chinese. It appeared that they still thought the forklift driver was one of their own, but the woman was shrewder than her male counterparts, and she was encouraging the others to draw their weapons.

The fork began to rise carrying the crate upward, and Grace saw Romeo in the operator's seat, frantically punching at random buttons. Grace took the distraction to dash up the right ramp of the dais, where she hid behind more crates, getting a perfect view of the bad guys.

There was cussing and yelling coming from the crate, which had risen almost to the ceiling. The crate was jolting dangerously around like it might come off the fork at any moment. Then the fork was released and the crate came crashing down to the ground. A cloud of what looked like coffee dust plumes went up from inside the mechanics well the box fell into, and then Murphy and Connor burst out covered in brown and white powder. They rose from the debris, drew their Berettas, and started walking toward the platform, firing, and hitting their targets dead on. The woman let out a shriek and things went into slow motion, as Grace saw Romeo driving the forklift up onto the opposite ramp of the dais. Bullets were flying by, and the gangsters plunged backward into the wall, their bodies riddled with bullet holes. The woman dashed behind a crate across from Grace, and raised her guns at the twins.

Grace took off at a run, dodging bullets, and threw herself into the woman's body knocking her to the ground. She got the wind knocked out of her in the process. The other woman was screaming, trying to pull Grace's hair, and kick her way out from under Grace's weight. Grace noticed that the bitch had dropped her guns when she hit the ground. Grace tried to wedge her arm out from between them, feeling a trail of painful heat cross her cheek, as the woman's fingernails came close to scratching her eye out. Her eye started to water, and she blinked wanting to rub it. Grace was finally able to wrench her arm free from between their bodies, and she wedged her gun upward, and pulled the trigger, blowing a hole through the bottom of the other woman's chin.

Grace rolled over on her back, panting heavily. A heavy set figure, his face cast in shadow, was looking down at her. Grace saw him reach for his gun when he saw his leader dead, on the floor, beside her. Grace raised her arm, and was about to pull the trigger when the guys brains splattered on her face from the gunshot he had just taken to the back of the head. "Yeck," she said, wiping her face with her sleeve.

A jolt of fear went through her when – through blurry vision – she saw Murphy staring down at her, his eyes glistening with rage, his gun arm still extended and the tip of the weapon was smoking. She heard a couple of more gunshots from behind where Murphy stood motionless, and then Connor and Romeo were whooping, and shouting. "Murphy?" She said, holding up her hand for him to pull her up.

He was frozen, staring down at her. "Dear brudder, despite the blatant ignorance of our new amigo here, I'd say we cleaned fuckin' house…" She heard Connor say, then a big hand clamped on Murphy's shoulder, and Connor looked down to see Grace sprawled out in front of Murphy, next to the dead woman, covered in blood. "What the fuck…" He stammered. Then Connor was kneeling beside her, ripping off his jacket and using it to clean her face. She saw Connor look at the woman next to her, and he closed his eyes for a moment, like he was saying a prayer, "Ye want ta fuckin' help me, Murph. She's hurt." Connor looked over his shoulder at Murphy, who was now literally shaking with fury, his arm slowly lowering. He looked back down at Grace, back up at Murphy, and then enlightenment showed on his face. "Aye," he said, "It's makin' some fuckin' sense now, why ye've been acting such a fool lately." He looked back over at the woman. "Gracey. Ye've been a very bad girl."

Grace frowned, wincing at the pain in her cheek. "I can't be a Saint, Connor." She whispered, feeling hot tears stinging her face.

"What the fuck are ye talking about?"

"Noah…Noah told me. Only those with MacManus blood are Called. Noah said I have another purpose, a different kind of Calling."

"What's dat den?" He asked, helping her up to a sitting position.

She bit her lip, her eyes darting up to Murphy who was still too far gone to speak. "He told me I'm supposed ta keep ye safe, ta do the ones ye can't."

Connor inhaled deeply, glancing back up at Murphy again. "Sit here, love, we've got work ta do. Den we'll get ye somewhere safe, and talk it out over a pint uh somethin' dark and chocolaty, won't we Murph?"

Murphy didn't answer. He holstered his gun, and looked everywhere but down at her.

"Beamish Stout?" She asked hopefully, naming her favorite Irish Stout.

He laughed, his eyes crinkling in, and his smile calmed her down, despite the look Murphy was still giving her. "That's the spirit, lass. Stay here, okay?"

She stood up, feeling a little wave of dizziness, and rested against one of the crates, trying to ignore the searing pain in her cheek. He went over to his brother, and put both hands on Murphy's shoulders, leaning his forehead in to rest against his twins. He whispered something to Murph that she couldn't hear. Romeo joined them. Connor took a step back and slapped Murphy across the face. Murphy growled, and jumped for Connor. Then they were wrestling on the floor between the bodies and blood. "Guys, knock it the fuck off," Romeo yelled, "You're ruining my fucking moment."

Romeo was holding one man at gun point with a tiny twenty-two. The man protested sharply in Chinese. Grace caught some of it. She wasn't proficient in the language, but the man was basically cursing the four of them to die and suffer the fate of a hundred Buddhist Narakas – or realms of hell.

Both boys stopped for a minute, and looked up at Romeo, and then they were laughing, and Romeo shook his head muttering something about not being appreciated.

Grace watched, transfixed, as the boys went to stand behind the kneeling man, and leveled their guns at the back of his head.

_And shepherds we shall be, for Thee, my_

_Lord, for Thee. Power hath descended_

_forth from Thy hand, that our feet may_

_swiftly carry out Thy command. So, we_

_shall flow a river forth to Thee and_

_teeming with souls shall it ever be._

The twins paused momentarily. Grace knew the words by heart, but still to see the twins serve justice with the prayers made her skin tingle. The fat Chinese man groaned and then they commenced in the same perfect synchronicity.

_In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus_

_Sancti._

….

"She's exhausted, Murph, an' hurt. Plus I promised her a pint. Confession can wait 'till tomorrow, can't it?"

Murphy shook his head, biting the side of his thumb, and shooting an occasional concerned look back at Grace.

"Whatever den, tink ye can stop at the next catholic church, Romeo." Their friend swerved, making a swift left.

"Romeo knows the perfect place, don't ya worry."

Grace caught her reflection in the rear view mirror. Her curls were still covered in dry blood, her face was cleaner than it had been, but it was also still bloody. The long scratch down her cheek wouldn't stop bleeding, and every few minutes Connor – who was sitting next to her in the back-seat - would gently dab it with a rag. The entire right side of her face was red and inflamed.

They pulled up in front of a modest looking church. Connor helped Grace out, and Murphy came to stand on her other side. She felt insecure every time she met the dark haired brother's electric blue eyes. Yes, she'd killed a woman, and she knew Murphy was probably thinking her soul was condemned to hell now. She figured that was why he'd insisted on going to confession. But Grace couldn't stand the thought of Murphy being disappointed with her – it was driving her crazy. When it came to Murphy, her soul was back-burner. She just wanted him to understand, but they hadn't had a chance to talk about what Noah had told her yet. Maybe it wouldn't matter. Maybe Murphy would never look at her with pride and adoration again, because she was a killer now. A killer of – what he considered – an innocent, but Grace knew better. There was nothing innocent about the Chinese woman. She was going to try to kill the twins, and that mad the woman evil to Grace.

They must have looked a sight, entering the church covered in blood. Fortunately there was no one occupying the few pews the church had. They made their way to the confessionals and Connor helped Grace into the first box, opening the door for her. "I'll be right outside," she heard him say, before he shut the door behind her.

Grace knelt and waited for the priest to enter. When she heard the shade slide aside, she knew he was waiting for her to begin. "Bless me father, for I have sinned…" she whispered. _And I'll do it again, for them_ she silently vowed.

….

**A/N:** I'm following pretty close to the script with lots of little deviations that help Grace to fit in to the story. Hope that's okay with you guys. Loving the great reviews, and hope you have a chance to leave another. I feel so privileged to have such wonderful and dedicated readers. If you have an extra minute, please check out my other stories: **Blood Quest** (Riddick), and **Sweet Revenge** (Bethyl). I also have an original story – with _**zombies**_, robots & romance, posted on the sister site, fiction press dot com, called **The Turn**. I'm listed as calliecolors there too. Hope to have a new chapter of Saint Grace up next week. It's going to be a fun one to write because of the next scene in the movie – the typical BDS victory drinking scene + Grace. Thanks everyone!


	5. Chapter 5 Morning promises

**Disclaimer:** This is a work of fan fiction. The story I tell about Connor & Murphy MacManus is my own invention, and it is not purported, or believed, to be part of the _Boondock Saints_ story canon. It is for entertainment only and is not part of the official story line.

**A/N:** **Thank YOU KelseyBl **for beta reading this chapter and giving me your feedback, especially on that last part. Not sure what I'd do without your pre-read!

I wrote this chapter while listening to Stabbing Westward.

…_._

_Walls for the wind,__  
><em>_And a roof for the rain,__  
><em>_And drinks beside the fire -__  
><em>_Laughter to cheer you__  
><em>_And those you love near you,__  
><em>_And all that your heart may desire!_

….

Chapter Five

Doc was a sweet old man and Grace instantly liked him. He led the four of them up to a room that he'd been using for storage. The pub was a speakeasy during the prohibition, so the door of the room was concealed, making it the perfect hide-out. Murphy was still giving her the silent treatment. Connor hadn't mentioned his epiphany from earlier, and his understanding about Murphy's feelings for Grace made the tension even more awkward between the two of them.

Connor made good on his promise to give Grace a pint of stout. She sat back on a barstool and watched the old man drink with the younger men, standing around the pool table, getting louder and more animated with each shot they took. Grace snuggled into the chair, and watched with amusement as Connor tried to aggravate Doc's tourettes syndrome. After an hour or so, Murphy dropped back and came to stand next to her barstool. "Ye okay?" He asked, gesturing to the bandage on her cheek.

She shook her head, sipping her beer. "I'll live."

"Look, sorry I flipped out."

She shrugged. "I didn't come along to sit back, and watch the two of ye get each other killed."

"Why did ye, then?"

Grace told Murphy about her conversation with Noah on that final stormy night at the cottage. "That's just fuckin' crazy," he said, shaking his head, "Da's finally lost it."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "What's crazy about it?"

"Grace, we can take care of ourselves."

She met his eyes. There was blistering conviction shining through them. She got the feeling he was over confident, especially after seeing how poorly they planned the hit on the Chinese. She realized he was watching intently, waiting for her response. She didn't want to argue with Murphy, though, and she knew it was best to let things lay as they were for now. Let him celebrate, let him think she would heed his words. "I can see the gears workin' under all those flamin' curls." He commented, pinching a strand of her hair between his finger and thumb.

Grace laughed. "Murph, can I ask ye something?"

He shrugged, finishing the rest of his drink. He pulled a rolled cigarette of out his shirt pocket, and lit it up, the smoke creating a blue trail in the air above his head. Grace dug her fingers into her palms, silently scribing mantras of courage in her mind. "Do ye feel different about me now den ye did last night, on the ship?"

He frowned. "Why?"

"Because I killed that woman." Grace felt like she was drowning in his blue eyes, like she was drowning in two moons with shiny surfaces of liquid metal.

He gave a little nod, acknowledging he understood the question, and looked down at his drink. Connor was chasing Romeo around the room, and Doc was passed out in a beat up old recliner. "I do worry about yer soul." Murphy replied, and his eyes met hers again.

She nodded, having already known this from his behavior earlier. She put a hand on his shoulder, feeling him momentarily tense under her touch. "So considering my soul is probably damned to hell anyway…" She let the sentence drop off, and tried to finish it with her eyes.

He shrugged her hand off, and turned away. "What the fuck do ye mean?" He grumbled in response a few seconds later.

"Look at me," she said.

He shook his head, and watched Connor and Romeo. "Murphy MacManus, look at me."

He finally turned her way, his entire body rigid with tension. Grace didn't know if she was imagining the heat rolling – in waves – off of him. "What den?" He asked, the full blaze of his eyes on her.

She swallowed. "I want to be with you." She whispered. Now that he was looking at her, she felt self conscious again.

Murphy drew in a loud, ragged breath, and slammed the glass down on the table beside her. "Stop talking like that."

"Stop telling the truth?" She asked, shaking her head in refusal.

"Just stop, Grace."

"Why?"

"Because." His jaw flexed, and his hands were balled up in fists.

"What's going on over der?" Connor said, grabbing Murph around the neck and pulling him backward.

"Man, fuckin' don't," Murph said, twisting out of Connor's grasp.

Connor laughed, and winked at Grace. "Let's have it out den," Connor curled his finger at Grace, indicating she should join them at the table. She climbed down from the barstool and let Connor take her hand, and pull her next to him. He filled four shot glasses, and handed one to each of them. Murphy was still fuming, but he accepted the shot, and frowned at the one his brother gave her. "To the bravest Irish girl I know." Connor said, holding up his glass. They clinked their glasses together and did the shots.

Murphy slammed his shot glass on the table and glared at his brother. Connor smiled. "Don't look at me like dat, dear brudder. Vous aimez son" [you love her]. "We should be celebrating." Connor said.

Murphy's head shot up, and his eyes flicked from her own, to his twins. "Je ne veux bien sûr. Comme une soeur" [Of course I do, as a sister].

"Bullshit, Murph." Connor said, filling the glasses again.

Grace felt her cheeks get hot, either from the conversation or the rush of warmth from the drink. Poor Murph was looking tortured. She couldn't stand it, even if she was the one who had instigated the conversation. "Fág dó féin," [leave him alone] she told the lighter headed brother in Irish.

Connor laughed, clapping a hand on Murphy's back. "I'm tryin' ta help him, Grace."

"What the fuck are you three going on about?" Romeo asked, his words slurring, a half empty tequila bottle in his hand.

Connor gave Romeo a dead pan look. "My brudder and I were discussing the best way to pay ye back for that shit plan earlier. We two" he gestured to him and Murphy, "tink we should cut off yer big toes. Gracey here, soft heart an' all, tinks we should spare ye."

Romeo looked back and forth between them, sweat beads forming on his forehead. Then he scoffed and shook his head. "Hey man, that plan would have worked if that fucking fork lift wouldn't have…hey you guys are gonna listen to her, right?"

The boys looked at each other, and then they were coming across the table, pulling Romeo off his feet and slamming him into the table top, Murphy pinning him down, while Connor retrieved his biggest knife. Grace rolled her eyes and resumed her spot on the barstool, watching as the boys tortured their new friend. She couldn't help feeling sorry for Romeo. The twins were never going to stop fucking with him.

….

She wasn't sure when she fell asleep, but when awareness finally returned her head hurt like hell. Murphy was passed out on the pool table, shirtless, a stream of sunshine pouring down on his beautiful chest – from the sunroof above. Connor was on the floor underneath pool table, and Romeo was curled up on the tiny couch cuddling his tequila bottle. Grace wanted to stretch out. Her entire body was cramped from sleeping on the barstool.

She climbed down, holding out a hand to keep her balance, and stumbled over to the pool table. She climbed up beside Murph, laid her head on his outstretched arm, wrapped her thin arm over his chest and fell back asleep.

When she woke the second time, she was bundled against Murphy's chest, and he was holding her, his breaths coming quickly against her neck. She cuddled up into him, fitting her body perfectly against the curvature of his body. She heard a groan vibrate through him. His hand found the curve of her hip, and he squeezed, his fingers pressing into her skin. She gasped a little – caught off guard by his aggressiveness - and allowed him to pull her body even closer. A fiery web of lust traveled through every atom of her body, and she wanted him more than she had ever wanted anything in her entire life.

The next thing she knew she was alone, and Murphy was standing beside the pool table, his hands clenching the edge so hard she thought he might rip a section out of the wood. "Why did you do that?" She asked, yawning, and sitting up. She climbed up on her knees, and sort of crawled over to him, kneeling upward, she wrapped her arms around his neck and fit her body between his rigid arms. "Je tiens à vous toucher," [I want to touch you] she whispered sleepily in french, "Et je veux que vous touchez-moi," [and I want you to touch me].

"Oh Grace," he said, dropping his head down so that his lips were inches from the curve of her neck. She felt his breaths on her skin, his hair brushing against her chest, and chills spread throughout her body. Why did he resist? What she wanted from him was perfectly natural. She loved him, and she knew he loved her.

"Veuillez," [please] she murmured, still speaking French because he'd once confessed he liked that language best from her.

He groaned, and then his arms were around her. He skillfully pulled her hair aside, and began tracing a trail of kisses up her neck. His lips found hers and they both inhaled sharply. She let her hands trail up his rib cage, and onto his bare back, and the deeper the kiss got, the more she dug her nails into him. Her body was crying out for more, every cell screaming for him not to stop, never to stop. And then he broke free and took a couple of steps backwards, releasing her.

She whimpered involuntarily, feeling suddenly cold, and leaned back on her calves, hugging herself. "Is there something wrong with me?" She asked, biting her lips against frustrated tears.

He shook his head, biting his lip, and refusing to meet her eyes. "Absolutely nothing." He said. He crouched down and scooped a shirt off the floor, putting it on, and then finally he looked at her. "Yer perfect, Grace."

"Then what?" She said, exasperated, dropping her hands in her lap, and trying to fight off the tears that she felt coming on. "Why don't you want me?"

"Christ, Gracey, I do fuckin' want ye. I want ye more than I've ever wanted anyone," he said, and they both crossed themselves out of habit. "Want ye so bad I can taste it. Can't eat, can't sleep, can't stop thinkin' about ye in ways I fuckin' shouldn't be."

She blushed, and felt her salty tears stinging the cut on her cheek. "But.." she said, patting her eyes.

His expression grew more tortured as he realized she was crying. "Yer way to fuckin' young and pure for me."

"So I'm supposed to become a dried up hag, is that it Murph? You don't want me, but no one else can have me either? Is that is den?"

"No," he said, and he took a step toward her, his eyes turning compassionate. If she saw pity in them she was going to come off the table and scratch them out, despite how beautiful they were. The last thing – in the world – she wanted from Murphy MacManus was pity.

"What den?" She asked, "I'm old enough. I'm a woman in every other way."

Murphy sighed, and his body trembled. "What yer talkin' about…going that far, how d'ya know you're really ready for that, lass?"

She frowned. "I know I'm tired of being teased."

His lips were inches from hers, and he was stroking her bare arms with his fingertips, sending radiating waves of electricity through her entire body, making it hard to concentrate. "If we live t'ru the day, and if ye still feel the same tonight, we'll see what happens, but I'm not makin' any promises."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "If you're fucking with me, I'll never forgive you."

He laughed, reaching up and brushing a hair out of her eyes. "Wouldn't do that to ye." He leaned in, and softly brushed his lips against hers.

A groaning sound emitted from nearby, under the pool table, and Murphy broke contact with her, stepping away, but his eyes stayed locked on hers, and she thought she saw a promise there.

Tonight. Murphy was right, it wasn't necessary to rush things. Grace didn't feel she had to jump his bones immediately, in fact – deep down – she was terrified at the prospect of going all the way with Murphy. But him holding her, touching her, and kissing her would be a decent starting point. She was so desperate for him, that she would take whatever he was comfortable giving, as long as he gave something.

"All right, which one of you pendejos tattooed me in my sleep?" They heard Romeo grumble. Murphy and Grace turned toward their new friend, who was staring – with a bewildered expression – down at his forearm. They busted up laughing, hearing Connor's chuckles join theirs, as he pulled himself out from under the table behind them.

….

**A/N: ** Short chapter, and sorry it's taking me so long in between. Love frazzles the mind, and mine is totally frazzled right now, so please bear with me please.

If you have an extra minute, please check out my other stories: **Blood Quest** (Riddick), and **Sweet Revenge** (Bethyl). I also have a (non fan fiction) story – with _**zombies**_, robots & romance, posted on the sister site, fiction press dot com, called **The Turn**. I'm listed as _calliecolors_ there also.


End file.
